Paradise
by Donatien Valiarde
Summary: And in the end, isn't that what they had wanted? For the barriers to slip away, for the lies to no longer matter. To be just the two of them. Oneshot, Leon/Ada.


I.

They are gaunt and weather-beaten. Like two feral dogs, they lope forward, circling their prey.

Above, she grips her handgun with its half-empty clip. She crouches and edges into place, taking cover behind the rim of the roof.

There is a list to follow—survival protocol. First, she checks his position: his flanks, his blind spots, the approaches that would reach him. Across and below from her, he stands with his back against a wall, weapon poised. He's clear. Only after assuring that does she look ahead to what they face.

She squints against the sun, but there is little to discern. Waves of heat. Dust settling on white brick. A tickle of sweat down her neck. The helicopter straddles the road, dragging the sides of stone houses to the ground with it. Its curled blades stab at a blistering sky. Nothing moves, and not even the wind dares to breathe.

She gestures, two sharp jabs with her arm.

He moves out of cover, and so does she. Slinking over the rooftop, she crosses a board spanning two buildings that crowd against one another, keeping pace with him. They move in tandem, a dance that is neither practiced nor expert but perfectly instinctive. They know its steps; they always have. It is theirs alone.

From her next vantage, she pauses long enough to watch him give an all-clear. He lowers his blade, but never turns his gaze away from the rubble.

She doesn't find her way down until she has made a final, meticulous survey of their surroundings. There is no one, nothing. Leon shrugs when she reaches him, pointing the end of his machete towards the wreckage.

The door has been pried away. Slumped over the controls, still strapped into the seat, are filthy rags and sloughing flesh. Flies drone around a split skull, a mound of pink and black matter. The smell is scorched and profane, forcing bile into her throat. On the ground squats a helmet of United Nations blue.

She grimaces. Others have beaten them here.

"Should we search it anyway?" he asks from beside her.

Without a word, she grits her teeth, holds her breath, and starts to climb past the body.

II.

Radios bounce against their hips and phones rest comfortably in their holsters. They begin to rust, choking with dirt and grime. Months have passed since they worked. Even so, the two of them hang on to the devices like priceless artifacts, like at any moment they will rouse from their slumber and restore civilization.

They know nothing about the wider world. All they know is the day-to-day: the search for food, water, shelter. They know their weapons, the edge of his knife and each remaining bullet in her gun. They know the signs of a storm and the rasp of the dead. They know survival.

They are learning the landscape, moving by day and taking cover by night. They loot, hunt, hide, kill. They never stay in any single place for more than a handful of days, lingering only for reliable sources of water before moving on in their unending search.

They mostly avoid the skeletal villages with their gutted buildings and clandestine nooks. In the beginning, the towns housed riots. The insatiable prospect of supplies drew gangs that fought and killed each other in the streets. Afternoons flooded with screams and the rapping of assault rifles; dusks glowed with the bonfires of the victorious. In turn, bodies—both living and newly killed—drew on the hordes of dead, and the wars continued into the dawn.

The two of them watched this cycle from the hills, time and time again. When it had run its course, they swooped in like carrion birds, took what they could find, and were awing again at the first sign of trouble.

Now, though, those rural hamlets are empty and ravaged. They hold little promise but danger and death, reanimated corpses or haggard survivors that shoot on sight. But still, sometimes, the two of them try anyway. They have no other choice. It is kill or be killed. Pillage or starve.

Before it all started, they met in the capital. A disaster was reaching its full bloom. It had been budding for some time: blood-soaked protests, skirmishes between rebels and the military, bombings of both insurgent and innocent neighborhoods. When the country's dictator began flaunting his intent to use biological weapons against civilians, the world roused into action. A preemptive humanitarian crisis was declared, Security Council resolutions summoned NATO forces and the BSAA, troops started to arrive.

The two of them had their missions. They were the usual sort. On the same side but on opposing sides. He was in a counter-BOW contingent under the NATO umbrella; she had orders to interfere in the catastrophe, serving purposes that weren't her own. She knew that he would be there, so she made her presence known to him in signals that only the two of them understood. She had information to give him—warnings.

They met on the outskirts of the city. The warehouse was barren and poorly lit. It was neither the time nor the place for one of their typical liaisons, but still she wanted nothing more than to keep him for herself that night. Yet there were only minutes to tell him what she wanted him to know before the two of them would need to part ways again.

Instead, the first tremor shuddered beneath their feet. Steel sheets rattled and windows cracked. For a paralyzed instant, they stood across from each other in disbelief and fear and resignation. He followed her outside, and together they stared at a flare of light blossoming in the distance, across the city skyline below and away from them. The second shock followed. They watched the silhouettes of buildings disintegrate into the night.

"I have to go back—"

"We have to get out of here." She looked straight into his eyes, holding his gaze. "There's no way you're getting back. There's nothing we can do. We have to leave. Now."

Then came the cataclysm. Everything went south from there. They drove all night, as far away from the city as they could get, but by morning the collapse was well underway. They had been through Raccoon City, Tall Oaks, Lanshiang, more. They knew the procedure: missiles that would scrub cities off the face of the Earth and purge the viral spread. And missiles there were, in droves. And bodies, maimed and dying and dead and undead. And soon the choppers and jets and unmanned aircraft dripped out of the sky, then stopped coming altogether. And all that was left was the state of nature, a free-for-all, survival of the fittest.

The jeep ran out of gas. The radios picked up nothing. There was no signal and their phones died and that was that. There would be no grand escapes, no last-minute evacs, and no daring rescues. Instead, they would scavenge together, grow lean and hardened, and wonder uselessly at global downfall and humanity's fate.

Now, they move on foot, as they have for months. They head south. South, towards the sea. To what, neither of them really knows. They have no other plan and there can be no other plan and so they don't overthink it. They need a goal to keep them going, so that is what they cling to. They carry backpacks with their scant supplies, keeping to the wilderness as much as they can and only slipping into the ruins of human habitation when their need is dire.

Today is one such day. There is a compound across the valley. When they spot it, they exchange a look, but there is no need for discussion. Their supply of water is growing desperate, their food rations thinning.

They make a wary survey of the perimeter before venturing their approach. The compound is a cluster of stocky buildings within a low, rough wall. There is no sign of movement inside. No sentries patrolling the gates or survivors razing the weedy garden or dead walkers shuffling in wait for a breathing body. They move through the gate and together begin their sweep.

They find signs of former habitation. A paddock for livestock and a little barn. Olive trees. A cart and tools. They come upon a well, and raise a bucket of untainted water. They take turns pouring long, greedy drinks with streams dribbling from their chins. They fill their canteens to the brim and spill dark patches onto the sand.

They find clues of the occupants' demise. Bits of animal remains near the barn, cracked bones and gristle and stained fleece. There is a leafless tree with a rope hanging from a branch. A punishment or a ward to passers-by or a cruel death, they can't tell which. At its end is a half-carcass suspended by what is left of the neck, a sack of withered skin and gooey entrails. Behind the main building, they discover a failed gunfight. Red-brown smears and bullet holes. A torso with ragged stumps.

He kicks in the door. Its hinges split, and it thuds against the floor. They wait, and listen.

He takes the first step inside, blade drawn. She follows him, every sense pushed to the height of awareness. The air is heavy, spoiled, and hot. She maneuvers around broken furniture as her eyes adjust to the wan sunlight that dips through the windows. Across the floor are putrid rugs, littered with refuse and pulpy masses that were once parts of human bodies.

From across the room, she hears something like a cough. Like something struggling to breathe.

She whirls towards the sound, gun trained. Across the room, Leon makes a motion and she responds to it without a thought. Moving in, they corner their target from opposite directions.

A heap of rags rises, trembling, to its feet. A woman—or what is left of her. Beneath its tattered clothing, little of her remains. It reaches out to them with starved fingers, its jaw slack. At its feet is another body. A small body, missing its head and most of its flesh.

The creature takes a desperate, shaking step towards them.

She is on it before it can move again. A single kick to the chest, throwing it against the wall. He sweeps in from behind her, the machete's edge crunching into the remnants of its brittle throat. The first blow is not enough to do the job. He wrenches the blade free, takes a second swing, and parts what remains. The skull rolls aside and the body crumples.

He steps back, standing closer to her. Breathing heavily, he wipes his free arm across his forehead, his eyes never leaving the pair of corpses.

They find no other threat. When they have secured the compound, the pillage begins. Their efforts are rewarded in the end. Along with fresh water, they come away with dried fruit, a store of cured meat, and a stash of vegetables that are wilted, but salvageable.

They spend the night in the barn, trading guard shifts and sleeping on a clump of hay. Through the hours of darkness, she sees an emaciated mother and child in her mind's eye. To endure the nighttime, she watches him sleep by filtered moonlight, but refuses to let herself hold him or be held.

III.

Some days, he forgets what life was like in the time before. Sometimes everything runs together. One disaster after another, the two of them always outlasting it all by a thread. Sometimes he thinks that the years of his life beforehand were all just practice for this decisive calamity. He constructs the narrative of his life so that its purpose is this alone.

He forgets what it was like to have a normal existence. Modern appliances. Restaurants, groceries. Beds and pillows. Water from a tap. But when was his existence ever normal? The two of them were always trained killers, built and molded for these settings. For survival. This is where they have always lived, where they thrive.

Now it is just the two of them. They have their enemies, like they always have. But they're simpler, primal things. Thirst, starvation, exposure. A creature that is sub-animal. Sometimes, rarely, other human beings. There are none of the complications of civilized life. No games to play or people to deceive or secrets to tuck away. There is little but their meandering path and the sounds of their footsteps, just the two of them.

Midday, they come to a village that is more outpost than town. Just a few buildings on either side of a dirt road. It has little appeal. But as usual, they are desperate, and need spurs them onward.

Together, they dispatch the ghouls they find loitering around the houses. Between the two of them, it is a straightforward task. It is not, however, without its risks and costs. Each time, they throw themselves at the threat of injury or infection, expending energy that is not easily recovered. But in the end, it is a necessary gamble for the possibility of loot, nourishment, and subsistence.

The search turns up only a few worthwhile supplies until they reach a shed in the middle of town. He guesses that it is something like a garage, an alluring thought. Crouching down, he gives the handle a hard tug.

It takes them a while to free the door from its locks. But when they do, it folds upwards, and in front of them sits a fully intact truck. A look passes between them. They can't let hope run away unchecked.

He makes an inspection as she rummages through boxes and shelves. The truck is old and grotesque, little more than flaking paint and rust. But everything is there. The engine, tires, even a few canisters of gasoline, much to his surprise. Most vehicles had been stripped in the earliest raids. Whoever had last been through the town had done a poor job.

"Think we can find a key?" He shoots her a wry grin, a gesture that she is slow to return. After a moment, though, she concedes.

"Maybe."

A few minutes later, she approaches rattling a set of keys on a ring. "One of these might do the trick." Her smile is restrained, but there.

They finish a careful search of the town, load up the bed with every useful scrap they can find, and are on the road by late afternoon. They leave the windows down, savoring the evening air and the bellow of the engine. As the sun begins to slide behind a distant ridge, he pries his eyes away from the road and watches her as she drives.

She is focused and attentive, but relaxed. The most relaxed that he can remember seeing her. He watches—furtively—the way the wind pulls back her hair, the color of the sunset on her skin and in her eyes.

It is like seeing her for the first time. And somewhere in him stirs a memory of the time before. Of what they were to one another then. Of what they are now.

IV.

The truck comes to a slow halt. Leon gives the keys a twist and the engine stammers. A still moment passes before he opens the door.

She steps out after him. Outside, the day is balmy and clear. She takes a deep, steady breath and looks above her. Green branches sway with a sudden brush of wind. Against a blue field, clouds trundle away and out of sight behind the hills.

They have depleted their supply of gasoline and the truck is facing its end. They expected as much—it had to happen eventually. Still, its loss is disappointing and keenly felt. They leave it in a clearing where it may or may not be found and don't look back as they start through the trees.

The day, however, is not without its triumphs.

They drove and drove, and soon the landscape smoothed and grew lush around them. Rocky crests gave way to rolling slopes. Woodlands sprouted across the terrain. Then they discovered the river, pure and cheerful. And for a while, they followed its course as it slithered and wove through its basin. That's how they came upon the town.

It is huddled between sloping, forested hills and pressed against the river. At first, they made a passing survey and found its streets silent and overgrown. Upon closer inspection and against all their suspicions, it proved undefended and uninhabited. But there are fish in the waters and fruit trees along the banks and vines running wild in unkempt fields. As far as they can tell, however, the houses and lanes are empty. No survivors, no undead walkers, no bodies.

At the edge of town, they discovered a stone cottage hidden behind an orchard, just a short walk from the banks of the stream. This, too, they found abandoned. They went through its rooms, studied its contents, and realized that it had not been occupied in months. Then they made an unspoken agreement.

Now, they find their way back into town. They wander through the orchard—picking fruit along the way, as they have learned never to waste such opportunities—and head towards the river. As they approach its banks, he turns back to her.

"So. What do you think?"

She eyes him, studying his reaction as she composes her answer. "I think we should see how things go. We can't get our hopes up or let our guard down. But…Staying is a possibility. For now, at least."

"Sounds like a plan to me," he says.

They sit down and take off their packs and share the fruit between them. She spots a hint of mischief in his gaze as he finishes his portion and tosses away the core. He drags himself back to his feet and starts to pull his shirt over his head.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demands.

He smirks. "Swimming."

She stares at him with all her marshaled disbelief.

"Don't look at me that way," he says without pausing as he undresses. "We both know how long it's been since we last had showers. And I know how badly you want to jump in that water. Don't even pretend you don't, Ada."

"One of us needs to—"

"Stand guard, yeah, I know. Leave your gun right here and we'll grab it if we need it." He throws his clothes into a heap. "Now come on. Give me one good reason why you can't."

In the end, she can name no reason. His grin deepens and she lets him have his victory; ultimately, she revels in it with him. And that afternoon, for the first time that she can remember, they forget themselves.

At sundown, they return to the cottage. Though their seclusion is still not completely certain, they decide to risk building a fire in the hearth anyway. They cook a meal of roasted fish and vegetables, eating by the glow of the flames. As darkness settles into the valley, they linger by the fire's warmth and listen to it spit and crackle.

They talk. At first about nothing. What they'll do tomorrow, how they should secure the house, the need to sweep the town for any other provisions they can find. Then about everything. About the time before and the people they once were.

He tells her about his childhood. About growing up, his parents and his little sister, what inspired him to want to be a cop. The years after Raccoon City, the constant struggles in his life. And soon, she is doing the same, returning the gesture in kind. She tells him about herself. Who she was, what she was. Her own girlhood and its trials. How she became entangled in corporate intrigue and the machinations of the global elite. Together, they find themselves back in Raccoon City, then Spain, the Eastern Slav Republic, Tall Oaks, Lanshiang, more.

It is a strange feeling, but somehow perfectly natural. She never expected to tell him these things or to hear his story from his own lips. But there is nothing to hide now and no reason not to unbury themselves and their secrets. After all, nothing exists in their world to hold them back. Only the two of them are left.

And in the end, isn't that what they had wanted? To be left alone. For the barriers to slip away, for the lies to no longer matter. To be just the two of them.

They discuss what could have been. They build a life together, bickering over where they would live and what they would do with themselves. What jobs they would have, what they would do in their spare time. They debate the details of a house and construct their own normality.

That night, they forsake sentinel duties and their usual traded sleeping shifts. They claim the bedroom for their own, spending their hours on a mattress with stale sheets.

V.

It happens a few days later.

They are scouring the town again, going from building to building in their hunt for anything and everything they can put to use. Some of the structures are decrepit and rotting, poor designs and poor materials that have not withstood the elements.

He is rifling through drawers and cabinets in a ruined store. She tells him she is going across the street to start on their next location as he finishes his search. He says he'll catch up to her.

His breath catches in his chest when he hears the crash. For an instant, he waits, expecting her to shout a reassurance to him. But when nothing follows, he rises and jogs into the street.

"Ada?"

She doesn't answer. His pace quickens.

Even before he reaches the threshold, he knows what has happened. A section of the building's second floor—frail and decayed—has collapsed. He rushes inside and is met with a wall of debris. As he starts to dig through it, he calls out to her again. He hears her voice murmuring formless words. Throwing aside broken furniture, he finds a trickle of blood.

She is buried beneath it all, and he swears to get her out, he's almost there. Finally, he is able to shove aside a thick plank of wood and finds her.

He sinks to his knees beside her.

"No, no. Ada—God, no."

The edge of the metal railing is wet and red, its point gleaming. He can barely stand to look at it. She tries to speak again, feebly lifting herself onto her elbows. He supports her gingerly, easing her back down.

"I'm going to get you out of this, okay?" he tells her. "Everything is going to be all right. Just hang on. I promise I'm going to get you out of this." He struggles, but fails, to keep his own voice level.

He knows it is all in vain, but still he works as quickly as he can. He tells her it's going to hurt, that he's going to have to hurt her but that he has no choice and that she has to be still. She makes no protest.

When finally he manages to extract her, he lifts her into his arms. He is hardly aware of his own movements as he carries her across the town and towards the river. He notices only the rise and fall of her chest and the heat of her blood sinking into his clothes.

At the water's edge, he eases them both onto the ground and gathers her against him. Neither of them dares to look at the wound. She presses her palm to her abdomen and otherwise refuses to acknowledge its existence. He covers her hand with his own, blood oozing through their fingers.

She rests her head against his shoulder, her breath labored and strained.

They make no final speeches or frantic professions. They have already said whatever would need to be said. Somewhere in them, they both knew that this would happen one day, that they would have to face this moment together. Perhaps they had already accepted it. They had already resigned themselves to its futility.

Instead of speaking, they listen to the sound of the water moving across the rocks of its bed, the breeze sighing through grass and leaves, the pulse of their bodies. They watch the glimmer of sunlight ripple across the river's surface.

He doesn't know how long he has stayed there. How long after her breathing has grown shallow and then stopped altogether. How long he has held her, running his fingers through her hair as her life bled out of her and onto him.

He pulls himself to his feet, carefully bracing her against him. He undoes the handgun from its holster at her side. Mindful of the need to keep it dry, he holds the gun away as he wades into the river. He stops about midway, when the water reaches just above his waist. The current swirls around them both, tugging and nagging. The sheen of the sun grows brighter on the glassy water.

Cradling her, he studies her features one last time to commit every detail of her to memory. Then he closes his eyes so that he won't see the muzzle of the gun as he fits it between his teeth.

* * *

**Thank you to Angelic Hellraiser for patiently beta-reading this story. **


End file.
